


Our Luck is Holding

by lha



Series: Luck & Consequences [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Fic, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-21 12:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lha/pseuds/lha
Summary: A sequel to 'Just Not Fair'.Greg and Mycroft are attempting to move on but their luck hasn't improved much.





	1. Chapter 1

_“Stay?” he asked, unable to cover the need oozing from his every syllable._

__

__

_“Course I will, I’ll rest here, right next to you and tomorrow we can think about what happens next. But for now, I’m here…” Mycroft could feel the drugs taking effect now; the buoyancy they gave to his thoughts, carrying them over the worries, the concern. It was almost as if he was watching them from a distance; the concerns and the pain to drifting over him and away as morpheus pulled him under._

They would have worked it out the following morning, except that Mycroft’s phone had rung at the back of five waking them both up. Greg had listened as the other man had answered, watching as he pushed himself upright to sit on the side of the bed and eventually heard him say that he’d be outside when the car arrived. 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft offered as he left to go to the bathroom.

“Don’t be,” Greg said, sitting up as well and watching him go. By the time he came back Greg was properly wake . “Are you feeling better?”

“Much, I’m sorry for last night and thank you for… well...”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, “but there’s obviously something else that you need to be thinking about right now.”

“Hmm I’m afraid so,” Mycroft acknowledged, opening a suit bag and starting to prepare his armour, “but that doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate...” He made a general all encompassing gesture. 

“Well I’ll let you get dressed...”

“You don’t have to…”

“Yes, yes I do,” Greg said. It would be so easy to pretend that nothing had changed during these last years, but things had changed, they had changed. “ But it’s fine. I’m going to go put the kettle on and have some trifle for breakfast.”

“I fear that I may have some residual nausea…” Mycroft said, crinkling his nose at the idea.

“I’m telling you, dessert for breakfast is the best thing about boxing day,” he teased, pulling on his dressing gown and slippers. “Don’t leave without saying goodbye?”

“I won’t.”

And he hadn’t. Mycroft had come into the warmth of the kitchen, and happily accepted the thermos cup of Assam tea that Greg had prepared for him, along with the gentle squeeze of the arm and then a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Try to look after yourself,” Greg told him before he waved him off from the front door.

It had been several weeks before they’d actually seen each other again, though they had begun exchanging regular emails. It wasn’t that there wasn’t a mutual desire to… reconnect, if nothing else the messages were friendly and as open as they could be without risking national security. It seemed though that since they had parted ways, Mycroft’s schedule had become even more impenetrable than before. The first time round, it had been almost impossible to get the civil servant to carve out some time for them to spend together and then for it to miraculously coincide with Greg being free. If he’d thought it would be different this time then it became very clear very quickly that he was mistaken. Eventually, after a more than forgivable number of last minute call offs, he finally snapped.

 _Hey, Can’t be helped. Just make sure that you have some dinner though, even if we won’t get our catch up! Mind if I contact Anthea and see if we can find at least an hour that she can protect a little better? Would really like to see you again. Greg_

The answer came back remarkably quickly:

_Monday 07:00-08:00, breakfast at Mr Holmes’ flat._

 _A_

Greg came off night shift at 06:00 on Monday morning and headed straight round. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft greeted as he opened the door, perfectly turned out and armoured to face the day.

“You’re security’s a bit more intense since the last…” he trailed off, cursing himself for bringing up the shadow 5 seconds after they’d said hello.

“The world is certainly no safer than it was two years ago, despite our best efforts.” 

“Well I’m glad they’re looking out for you,” he said genuinely, receiving a ghost of an unconvincing smile in return. There was another awkward moment when he removed his coat and they danced back and forth over whether he would simply hang it up himself or Mycroft would take it like a good host. They got past it eventually though, and Mycroft led the way through to the kitchen.

“I thought that we’d eat here,” he said, gesturing to the pine table.

“Perfect,” Greg replied.

“I’ve made coffee and there’s porridge but…” there was an uncharacteristic hesitation, “given you’ve been working I wondered if you might prefer… I’ve defrosted some stew.”

“Your stew?” he asked trying to suppress a grin, it had been a favourite treat when coming in from long nights.

“Venison. No fresh bread I’m afraid but there are some oatcakes.”

“That would be magic.” This seemed to break some of the tension that had been crackling in the air and as Mycroft set about the stove, Greg poured the coffee and they relaxed into light, familiar conversation. 

Over the next few weeks they managed a couple more breakfasts, this being the most reliable time of day to prevent events taking over Mycroft’s schedule. More than once though, Greg was pretty confident that the other man hadn’t been to bed. They walked a fine line; they knew each other so well, there were shared stories and behaviour patterns and some of them were re-emerging but there was a distance still to close between them. Sometimes, the old anger bubbled back up, the outrage, frustration and disappointment swelling up in him at any one of the thousand regular reminders that Sherlock Holmes had not in fact died. But they were rare, and it never lasted more than a moment these days. 

\------

Mycroft Holmes liked to think himself a pragmatist. He had long buried his hopes and desires in regard to Gregory Lestrade, tried to move past them even if he was far from naive enough to think that they were gone. And then his Mother had interfered and all of a sudden, those feelings had not only been brought back to the surface and raked over for all to see. He should have been angry, ashamed and humiliated, but while he was, he absolutely was, there was something more than that; he was hopeful for what felt like the first time since the DI had walked out of his life.

He tried to manage these feelings though, for while they hadn’t talked about it explicitly he knew and understood that this was not a fresh start, that his slate was not clean and that they would not go straight back to the way they had been. There was also the inconvenience of his all consuming work. He’d had reason to the thankful for it up until recently, thankful for the distraction for having something else, a thousand other things to think about in the cold dark hours of the night. Now that there were nicer ways to be spending his evenings, his Saturday mornings and even his lunch breaks though, he was struggling to manage his workload. 

He’d tried his best to find spaces in his calendar, to carve time out but it failed time and again until eventually Gregory suggested what he had been trying to avoid, devolving responsibility for scheduling to Anthea. Mycroft had thought that it would seem like he was treating this relationship, friendship, whatever it was as just another aspect of business, if he’d suggested involving his PA. It had however, worked. He’d been up half the night before the first time Gregory came for breakfast but five minutes after the other man had stepped over the threshold, it felt like he’d never been away. Or at least, there were moments, delightful moments, when he was able to forget the last two years.

With Anthea in charge of scheduling, they managed to see each other regularly and these occasions lengthened and evolved into trips out and late night conversations. He found himself emailing Gregory during tiresome meetings and when his mind was whirring and going nowhere, he would pick up the phone to speak to him. The calls he received in return were equally rewarding; when Gregory was stuck with a case and needed to talk it out, or even when Sherlock was proving particularly challenging, he would pick up the phone and ask ‘Do you have a minute?’ And if there was anyway he could, Mycroft would say a wholehearted ‘Yes’. The truth was however, that every phone call, dinner and even every breakfast that they shared, was time that Mycroft would have previously been working. So he stayed up later, he rose earlier and he did whatever was necessary to get everything done. 

They were sharing lunch in Mycroft’s official, if terribly dull and completely ordinary, office when he had to broach the subject of his next trip.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to be away for the next week, ten days perhaps.”

“I’d ask if you were going to be sunning yourself by the pool but…”

“Unfortunately not. It’s work related, a conference… that’s probably as much as I can say. Certainly within these walls.”

“When do you go?”

“First thing on Monday morning,” he replied, trying not to get caught in the intensity of the other man’s piercing gaze.

“And can I assume that this will be…”

“There will be certain challenges I’m sure.”

“And you’ll work all the hours to solve them,” came the gently ribbing rejoinder. Rather than lie, Mycroft merely tried to smile in response.

“Well if you’re going to vanish on me… Let’s have a day out.”

“Pardon?” he asked, they’d never manage to spend more than a couple of hours together until now.

“Saturday or Sunday, your choice. We’ll go to the British Museum and then have lunch, maybe at that little Korean place, and then we can take a turn around Hyde park. See if we can find somewhere showing something Noir and wonderful in the evening.”

“While that sounds delightful Gregory, I really do have a lot to do before I…”

“Come on, it’ll do you good to have some time to yourself before then,” the other man cajoled. His face was so open, his intent so earnest that he was totally helpless to refuse. 

“Sunday then. I’ll try and get everything done before Sunday.”

“Smashing,” he said with a cheeky grin, before leaning in and kissing the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Something to look forward to.”

It took a monumental effort, Anthea was climbing the walls when he told her that he would be taking the day off.

“It’s not that I don’t approve of the idea sir, only…” she gestured to his desk which was in fact mostly bare but he understood what she meant. This conference was coming at a most inconvenient time and there was more than enough going on for the time being.  
“I know. I’ll get it done before we go.” And he had. More or less. There had been several particularly long days that week and he hadn’t quite made it to his bed on Saturday night but it was undoubtedly worth it. 

The simple act of walking around a museum, of holding someone’s hand and knowing that this man, that Gregory had chosen their route based on what he thought Mycroft would enjoy most was more than enough to enliven his spirit. They talked of everything and nothing, of Sherlock, John, Mary and little Emily, of Mycroft’s parents, Greg’s team and Anthea’s love life. They spoke about what they might do in the future, places they’d like to eat and films they’d like to see again. And then, when they came to part, they stood on the pavement, no-doubt giving Mycroft’s security detail no end of amusement as they’d lingered over their goodbyes. He’d never been the greatest proponent of public displays but this farewell, the lingering kiss Gregory bestowed upon him on his front doorstep had been like a nectar to the soul. 

“Something worth coming home for eh?” the other man said softly. Mycroft leant in and kissed him in return, hoping to seal their commitment. 

“Gregory…” he began.

“Don’t work too hard and just look after yourself. Ok?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I get back. Communication is likely to be patchy at best while I’m away.”

“Isn’t it always? Let’s… let’s have a proper conversation when you get back Mycroft. I love you. The rest of this is all…”

“I know. I miss you Gregory. Still. More than ever.”

“Well, maybe not for much longer,” Gregory said, reaching up and wrapping his hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck, pulling their foreheads together. The memory of this closeness, the strength of Gregory’s grip and the look in the other man’s eyes as they had parted, fueled him through the following days.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg had gone home on Sunday evening walking on air, but by Monday evening he was feeling a bit rubbish and in the early hours of Tuesday he woke with the worst stomach cramps he’d ever experienced. There was no way he was going to make it more than ten feet from the loo so he hadn’t had much choice other than to call in sick. His boss hadn’t seemed particularly surprised as it turned out that half the Yard seemed to have whatever bug it was. He’d dragged himself into work on Thursday though with the hope of stopping his desk from disappearing entirely under a mountain of paperwork, if not fighting any crime, only for Sally to take one look at him, and point him back towards the door.

“It’s been confirmed,” she declared, “NSY is the latest Norovirus hot-spot.”

“Great,” he said trying to move past her.

“They’re going to deep clean everything tonight see if they can’t stop it spreading. Also, you’re not supposed to be here till you’ve been symptom free for 48hrs and you don’t even look symptom free now Boss.”

“What?” Greg tuned back in, frowning.

“You look like shit and you need to go back home.”

“Tactful as ever Sally,” he said, rubbing his forehead and breathing through another wave of nausea. 

“Just saying it like I see it, Boss.”

“How come you haven’t come down with the stomach bug from hell?”

“I’ve got a strong constitution. Now, are you going to leave or am I going to have carry your sorry ass out of here?”

“Yeah, look I’m not on my best form but I haven’t thrown up since last night.” 

“48hrs symptom free!” she called after him as she pushed him out the door.

The phone ringing on the corner of the street didn’t even register with Greg’s subconscious. He was feeling pretty ropey by this point and would have paid quite a lot just to be back in his flat. The ringing continued though, following him from phone box to phone box as he walked down the street, and when he paused at the edge of the road waiting for a gap in the traffic it finally broke through his foggy thoughts. Glancing around, he went across and opened the door of the phone box he wasn’t sure he remembered even noticing ever before.

“Hello?” he asked when he picked up the receiver. 

“You took your time.”

“Anthea? Maybe next time, you could just call my actual phone if you’re in a hurry.”

“It’s not secure.”

“Ooookay, want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Mr Holmes asked me to insure that you were updated at the earliest possible opportunity if anything untoward were to develop. I was endeavoring to balance that request with the need for secrecy…”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his blood suddenly running cold. 

“There has been an... incident.” 

“Anthea…” There was a warning note in his voice, his thoughts running a million miles an hour, trying to think exactly where it was Mycroft might have been going given that he wouldn’t say. 

“We have had to extract Mr Holmes from the conference.”

“Extract?”

“As in remove with haste. There was an imminent threat to Mr Holmes’ life.”

“Is he…?”

“He was delivered safely into the hands of a clean team.”

“I don’t even know what that means.” There was a tense silence before he heard her sigh uncharacteristically. 

“This is completely against every protocol we have.”

“Anthea I thought we had an understanding…”

“If we didn’t have an understanding I wouldn’t have contacted you at all. No matter what Mr Holmes’ wishes were.”

“Please just…”

“There was a mortar attack on the hotel where Mr Holmes was based. We have reason to believe that it was targeted specifically at him and have removed him from that location. He was uninjured but we had to grab and run.”

“How long till he’s back home?” he asked, knowing that the knot in his stomach was nothing to do with the virus and wouldn’t go until he’d laid eyes and ideally hands on his partner. Former partner. Friend.

“He… we can’t be sure that the threat is neutralised and … there may be a British connection.”

“So… he’s what? In protective custody? Hiding?”

“Effectively.”

“Oh God,” Greg breathed, leaning his forehead against the grimy pane of glass, “how long?”

“Until we can determine the nature of the threat and eliminate it.”

“Yeah… yeah of course.” There was a muffled noise from the other end of the line.

“A? Are you ok?” he asked.

“Fine.” It sounded like it was being said through gritted teeth.

“You usually lie better than that. Why didn’t you go with Mycroft?”

“Because someone needed to figure out why the hell we didn’t see this coming.” Her tone was tense and angry.

“And…” 

“I might have been pinned under some masonry. I’m fine though, just a couple of cracked ribs. Look I need to go…”

“Sure. Just look after yourself A and if you get a chance... Tell him I love him and that I’m looking forward to seeing him home.”

“I’ll… I’ll try and let you know how we’re getting on.”

“Thanks.” The dialing tone was the only response he got. 

He made it home, though afterword he couldn’t remember the rest of the journey and came back to himself sitting on the sofa and still wearing his coat. Greg knew that if Anthea said they’d got him out safe, then they had, but he couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d stay that way. The security team that looked after Mycroft were the best. They were loyal and experienced and Greg had known and liked them down to a man, or woman, last time round. He wondered where they would take him though and how long they could keep him there. How long it might be before Mycroft was climbing the walls, his mind shaking itself apart without something to focus on. 

Friday lunchtime saw him sprawled on the couch not watching reruns of Allo Allo and not eating the soup he’d made himself, when his phone rang. He reached for it, his heart soaring for a moment until he saw that it wasn’t an unknown number.

“Hey mate,” John said, when he did pick up.

“Hey,” he replied, unable to sound even vaguely interested.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, just a touch of norovirus.”

“Poor sod. Heard that it was doing the rounds at the Yard.”

“This would be the ideal time if you and Sherlock were planning anything particularly audacious. Or you know, wanted to actually help out.”

“I know Sherlock’s grown up a bit but I doubt he’s about to start voluntarily taking anything below a five.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“He did ask me to check in with you though,” John’s tone had changed. 

“Because I told him it was coming out of both ends when I was trying to get him to stop pestering me on Tuesday?”

“It might have been out of concern for your health, he’s used to you and probably doesn’t want you to die.”

“Not convinced he’s changed that much...” Greg said with a chuckle before placing a hand on his gurgling stomach. “I… uh… I can’t say much but there was a work issue with his brother. He’s had to be extracted from his conference.”

“Extracted in the military sense?”

“Yeah, they… they don’t want to bring him home till they’ve figured out the nature of the…”

“Ok. Well… I’m pretty confident that Sherlock’s already on the case.”

“Really?”

“Well it would help make sense of what he’s been saying to me today.”

“That’s something I suppose…”

“Are you going to be ok? I was going to ask if you wanted to come around for dinner but if you’re still feeling shite?” 

“Yeah… not quite up to solid food yet. Not great company either…”

“If you need anything though…how long since your symptoms started?” John, or rather Dr Watson, asked.

“This is day four. I’m much better just… not right.”

“Well hopefully it shouldn’t be much longer.” Greg, paused, trying to formulate the best way to ask a question about something that had been bubbling at the back of his mind for a while now.

“How long would I have been cooking this for, I mean would I have been contagious before I started showing symptoms?”

“Probably not. Why?”

“Just, Myc… we spent all day Sunday together and started feeling rubbish on Monday…” Greg thought about how rundown the other man still was, the long hours he was still putting in the way that his cheekbones were far too prominent. When he’d found out that Mycroft was going to be jetting off to foreign climes for a week of no-doubt stressful talks and negotiations, he had insisted that the other man should have some time off first, time for them to spend together. 

They had had a great time, but Greg was not so naive that he didn’t realise that Mycroft had been working all hours to free himself up. It was worth it in Greg’s eyes though, and he was pretty confident that Mycroft thought so too. Their relationship had been evolving and there had been something of a watershed when they had said goodbye. Mycroft had been far more open about how he was feeling, had allowed a chink in his careful reserve show before they had ki….

“Shit.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I got a goodbye kiss. First time we kiss properly in years and I’ve probably given him D&V”

“Not necessarily… but yeah, given your guys luck I wouldn’t be surprised.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mary Watson was more inured to phones ringing in the dead of night than most wives. 

“Sh’lock?” she asked, when John’s mobile pinged eight or nine times in quick succession well before the sun rose. There was an agreement that John didn’t put his phone on silent when they went to bed and, for the most part, the detective had become much better at only contacting them at vaguely acceptable times of the day or genuinely serious circumstances.

“Yeah,” John replied, flicking through the messages. 

“And?”

“Everyone at NSY has the plague. It’s making them more stupid than usual. Blah Blah Blah. Mycroft’s out of the country.”

“Isn’t that information some kind of national security risk?”

“Compared to some of the things that Sherlock fires across the ether I can’t imagine that it counts.” 

“True. Does he say where Mycroft is? Or why he cares?”

“Because he’s being inconvenienced, he’s been dragged into something.” John’s phone sounded again. “And… he wants me to talk to Greg.”

“About….” Mary asked.

“Doesn’t say. Presumably he’s not meeting Sherlock’s every whim.”

“No bloody wonder if he’s texting him at…” she rolled her head to check the time on the clock. “It can’t be after seven can it?”

“Typical, on the rare occasion when Emily let’s us sleep, the other child in our life insists on waking us up.”

“So His Majesty doesn’t want you to attend him personally?”

“No, my presence is not required. I’m just supposed to take Greg out for a drink.”

“Well that’s not much hardship,” Mary said content to wake up properly now that she knew the time, “invite him for dinner?”

“Yeah,”John agreed as he too began to sit up, “I will..” There was something bothering John, and as ever, it was written plain as day across his face. “Do you think that there’s something more to this request?” she asked.

“Maybe,” John replied, rubbing his face down. “It’s not like Sherlock to get involved with a case unless he really wants to, even more so if Mycroft’s instigating it but he seems to have thrown himself into this one. I just wonder if…”

“If Mycroft’s involved and that’s why he wants you to speak to Greg?”

“I’m sure I’m over thinking it…” John said with a sigh.

They’d spoken about Sherlock’s strange and convoluted obsession about the way his brother and Greg’s relationship was moving. But there was really no knowing what was going on inside Sherlock’s rabbit warren of a mind. Mary sighed and relaxed back into the pillows and, as if on cue, Emily started rattling the bars on her crib letting them know that she was ready to start the day. 

Early afternoon, while Mary was crawling around the floor at the local mothers and toddlers group, she got a text from John.

_No Greg tonight. He’s got whatever bug is doing the rounds at the Yard. Just like everyone else I’ve seen today. J x_

_Feel free to leave that at work!  
He knows he can call if he does need some looking after? M_

_He’s on the mend, or so he says. Think’s he might have given it to the British Government though. J x_

_Bet that goes down (or back up) well. M_

_Such a classy lady. Both ways though - this one’s indiscriminate. Jx_

_You love me for it though!  
(And thank you for sharing that image….) M_

_That I do.  
See you about 7 Jx_

_M xxx_

“Turns out it’s Norovirus,” John said through a mouthful of chicken curry that evening.  
“You’ve been saying that for weeks,” she replied, continuing to fold the never ending pile of tiny laundry.

“I have, but no one listens to a lowly GP, not until there’s samples to back it up.”

“Are they going to have to close the schools?”

“Nah, not yet anyway. New Scotland Yard’s one of the worst hotspots though, so probably that explains why Sherlock’s been getting such short shift.”

“Quite probably. I take it that’s what’s floored Greg?”

“I would think so but…” John cleared his plate and put his cutlery down, “I think he’s got bigger concerns that that.”

“Yeah?”

“I think Mycroft’s… I don’t know exactly what, but there’s obviously something going on and Greg’s climbing the walls.”

“Going on with their relationship?” 

“I don’t think so… it sounds like there’s been some kind of work related incident.”

“When he was away?” Mary asked, knowing that a work related incident would no doubt be more serious than John’s I’ve been pee’d on again work related incidents. 

“Yeah, apparently Anthea told Greg that they’d had to grab him and run but they weren’t going to be coming back to the UK. He hasn’t heard anything since then.”

“So a security breach then?”

“If Anthea is concerned about internal security she might have drafted Sherlock in, which would explain why he’s taken this mysterious case. And why he’s refusing to answer Greg’s calls.”

“Well if she’s been in touch with Greg already, hopefully she’ll let him know when there’s more to tell. And... “ she paused pulling her phone out of her back pocket, “I’m to report to Baker Street tomorrow morning,” she reported reading the message just as another couple arrived. “After I’ve dropped Emily at Nursery. But I can bring you if I have to.”

“How very generous of him.”

\---  


Greg heard the door opening and sprung up from his seat on the sofa. He’d been sitting in the near dark, ears straining since he’d arrived at Mycroft’s flat and abandoned his overnight bag in the spare room. 

“Mycroft!” he breathed in release, some of the strain he’d been carrying for most of the last week seeming to lift.

“Gregory?” came the tired and perplexed, if pleased response as Greg stepped out into the hall.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said stepping forward and opening his arms, allowing Mycroft to step into his embrace.

“And I you, though…” he stiffened and drew away from him. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Are you alright? Anthea said you weren’t hurt.”

“And I am not, but my digestive system is still a little unsettled.” 

“Ah, that would be my fault I’m afraid,” Greg said, feeling guilty all over again but Mycroft waved his apology away.

“It is hardly the first time I’ve caught a virus Gregory, and while unpleasant it has not been fatal.” The other man paused in his actions, Greg watched as the little colour there was in his cheeks faded and his brow became clammy. “However, if you’ll excuse me,” he said quickly, brushing past him and heading straight for the downstairs loo.

Greg picked Mycroft’s up coat from the floor where it had fallen, after it’s hasty hanging. He grimaced at the sounds coming from the toilet, knowing only too well how unpleasant this could be. Trying to offer the other man some privacy, he retreated to the kitchen and put the kettle on to make tea. Thirty minutes later, when despite having heard the flush go several times, there was still no sign of him, Greg hovered outside the door and knocked gently.

“Hey, are you ok in there? Can I get you anything?” There was a momentary pause.

“No,” came the hesitant reply, “I just… I fear I allowed Anthea to convince me to eat on the flight back despite my best instincts. It seems to have been unwise.” Even from the other side of the door, he could hear the unhappy sounds that Mycroft’s insides were making and the moan that he tried to cover.

“Mycroft… I’m going to get you some water and some of the rehydration stuff that John recommended ‘K? I won’t be a minute.” He’d thrown the boxes into his bag before he’d left just in case he’d had a relapse but it was all over the counter stuff so he didn’t think there should be a problem. Still, he pulled out his phone and fired a text off to Anthea;

_Did M see a Doc? Seems like he’s still pretty unwell._

_I tried but he refused. Managed to get him to eat half a slice of dry toast and a bowl of soup._

_Yeah… that’s not ended well._

“Right,” he announced, when he got back downstairs. “Alright if I come in?” he asked. Mycroft had always been very private about bodily functions and Greg could only imagine how much he would dislike this but needs must. There was the sound of the flush going again and what he suspected was Mycroft redressing himself. The fact that when the door was unlocked, Greg could see that he’d only pulled his trousers up without bothering to fasten them, was telling. As was the fact that he stepped back into the small room rather than out into the corridor. 

“I’m not sure that this suit is ever going to be the same again,” Mycroft said, following his gaze to where his jacket tie and waistcoat had all be flung haphazardly over the towel rail. A grimace passed across his face then, and he bent over, fumbling with his trousers urgently before reseating himself on the toilet. 

Greg was torn between being desperate to offer some comfort and not invading Mycroft’s personal space. There wasn’t much room in the WC though, so Greg simply crouched down in front of the other man. 

“I know that there can’t be anything left to come out but the urge is…” Mycroft said, the expression on his face one of distaste and humiliation. “I can’t be certain I wouldn’t...”

“Not a nice feeling. If you’re happier there for now then just stay put,” he tried to sound reassuring but the trembling thigh muscle below his hand spoke of distress and exhaustion.

“I’m so sorry Gregory. Really I’m not even sure why Anthea suggested that you were here tonight.”

“Because I’ve been driving her crazy asking for updates and she knew how desperate I was to see you were safe for myself.”

“That is… I have missed you too.”

“It’s funny how quickly I’ve gotten used to seeing you regularly again,” he said softly, kneeling up to brush the back of his fingers across the other man’s prominent cheekbone. “It’s not like I stopped worrying about what you were getting yourself into but knowing the details…”

“I really wasn’t in any danger…”

“Bollocks. Thought we talked about lying.”

“Not lying…” the other man said breathlessly, “down playing.”

“Uhhu, still not a fan,” Greg said, rubbing the tense muscles across Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Sorry, you shouldn’t have to…” he bent over again, riding through another wave of cramps.

“We’re not having that conversation again. I’m the one who gave you the bug,” he pointed out.

“You managed perfectly well on your own however. Really, you should go back to your flat. I’ll let you know when I’m fit company again and we can…”

“Mycroft, shut up. I’m not going anywhere you oaf. I love you and I want to look after you.” He leant in and placed a kiss on his forehead, “Besides, I had people to look out for me.”

“It just seems that since we became… re-acquainted, I keep finding myself relying on you at my most pathetic.”

“Pathetic is not the word I would use, but maybe when you’re well we could have a conversation about how you’ve been looking after yourself hmm?”

“I really didn’t feel nearly so awful until this…” Another series of cramps seemed to take him unawares and he gasped audibly, wrapping his arms around his middle. 

“Come on, I’ve got some re-hydration stuff,” Greg said, pulling the packet out of his back pocket and and shaking it into the glass of water he’d brought with him and abandoned on the floor. “And some paracetamol. There’s some anti-diarrhoeal stuff as well but I don’t know how that will work with your bp medication so…”

“Yes, best not to.”

“Ok, well slow sips I guess,” he said, handing over the glass and the pills. The paracetamol lasted less than a minute in Mycroft’s stomach before he lurched to the side, and vomited spectacularly into the sink. 

“Not to worry,” Greg soothed helping guide Mycroft as he sank back down onto the toilet seat. “I did exactly the same thing. Least you managed to contain the mess, that’s more than I did.”

“The vile carpet in your bedroom?”

“Yup! Gave it a good scrub when I was back to feeling vaguely human but not sure it’ll ever be the same.”

“I’m not sure how anyone would tell.” It was gentle ribbing and it felt good. Greg would be the first to admit that his flat was a far cry from Myc’s beautiful townhouse.

“Sure my landlord will notice when I ask for my deposit back. How about we skip the pills and try the fluid again.” Mycroft took the glass back and tried another tentative sip.

“Are you… contemplating doing that in the near future?”

“Hmm, I think this bloke I know might ask if I’d move back in with him. Thought I might say yes.”

“I’m sure he’d be delighted at that,” Mycroft said with a small smile, before leaning forward and resting his forehead on Greg’s shoulder. 

“Ugh.”

“I know love, let’s see if you can finish that drink and then maybe we can get you into bed with a hot water bottle.” 

“That sounds divine. I uh… I didn’t sleep particularly well in the safe house. Any of them.” No surprise there, Greg thought but didn’t feel the need to vocalise it. 

“Well then, you keep drinking and I’ll go put the kettle on.”


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft placed the empty glass on the edge of the sink and tried remarkably hard not to think about the aftertaste of the rehydration salts. He sat for a moment longer considering, before slowly standing and gently wiping himself down. There was another cramp and he clenched this time, hoping for the best. After it passed, he felt shakier than ever but he had not lost control. He was struggling to raise his briefs when Gregory re-appeared.

“Here, let me,” he offered, tucking the hot water bottle under his arms and leaning down to help. A wave of something hot passed through Mycroft as he looked down at Greg kneeling in front of him to help him dress. He couldn’t be sure whether it was emotional or a result of his current illness but it left him cold and trembling, fresh sweat running down his back. He used a hand on the tiled wall to steady himself. 

“Easy,” Greg said gently, his hands resting on his hips to steady him. It all felt so intimate and while he knew he should be utterly appalled to need this help, to be so exposed, he couldn’t bring himself to feel more than a little humiliated. 

Just as he had at Christmas, Mycroft now found it so easy to accept help from his former partner, the pattern upset him as much as anything. While he loved Gregory with all his heart, and had missed him dearly during their estrangement, he didn’t want to trap the other man through pity. He knew he had been the guilty party the last time around and he wanted to be certain that Gregory was never put in that position again. Somehow, setting out on this venture while he seemed to be doing far more taking than giving seemed a very poor beginning. 

It took some time, and several pauses so that Mycroft could control the urge to either throw up into the basin Greg had found from somewhere or disgrace himself in an entirely different manner but eventually they made it up two flights of stairs and into the master bedroom. Mycroft was vaguely aware that this was probably the first time that Gregory had been back in this room for two and a half years. The other man seemed to take it in his stride however.

“En suite. Please,” Mycroft said as they made it through the door, and Gregory nodded, changing their course again and following his leed as he lurched faster toward the door of the bathroom. He had never been so relieved to feel cool porcelain beneath him as moments later more matter than he believed his digestive tract could possibly still contain exited his body with unnatural haste. It was revolting. The noise, the smell, good grief… But there was Gregory, handing him the basin just as he started to heave. 

“Ok,” Gregory said quietly, “It’s ok, I’ve got you. Don’t worry, it’ll pass.”

“I certainly hope so,”

“Hey I’m still here amn’t I?”

“I’m sure you were never quite this revolting.”

“Hey, you’ve seen me look worse. Remember that time I thought I could eat five day old chinese…” Mycroft groaned at the thought of chinese food at all, never mind the outcome of the food poisoning. “...sorry, bad image,” Greg acknowledged, as Mycroft bent back over the plastic receptacle and dry heaved. “But I was ok, you canceled a trip to stay home with me. Don’t remember it all that clearly but I do know that it was pretty gross and that you had to buy a new mattress.

“Didn’t matter,” Mycroft admitted, “I love you.”

“And I love you, so stop worrying. It’s ok.” 

It was another hour before Mycroft managed to keep down another glass of rehydration mixture and was confident enough to leave the relative safety of the ensuite. “I’m not going to get in there with you, but only because you’re running a bit of a temp,” Gregory said, once they managed to strip him from the rest of his clothes he was going to have burned. “And we both know that I run like a furnace at the best of times.” It was something that Mycroft had historically enjoyed given that he was something of a cold fish.

“You can’t sleep in that chair, you’ll never be able to stand up again,” Mycroft mumbled, his eyes drifting shut as he curled around his aching stomach, pressing the newly re-heated water bottle into himself.

“Anth made up the spare room. Or at least, she let me know that it had been made up. I’m leaving all the doors open so just yell if you need anything. Or your phone’s on the bedside table.” That was reassuring Mycroft thought idly, before the knowledge of the calls that we was expecting, the work that had been piling up in his absence began to nibble at the edges of his thoughts as they drifted away until he woke abruptly, to the sound of the previously mentioned phone ringing.

Moments after he answered the call, automatically sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, his symptoms caught up with him.

“A moment please Anthea,” he said, pressing the mute button as he stood and stumbled across the room. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet bowl just in time to retch violently, over and over as his insides seemed to writhe and contract inside him. Eventually, the coughing and spluttering passed and though the cramping did not, he breathed through the pain and un-muted the call. “Apologies, what’s happened?”

“There’s been an incident in Washington,” she seemed somewhat hesitant.

“Details,” he asked, hoping she couldn’t hear the gurgling wet sounds issuing from his digestive tract. She provided him with the basics but it was quite clear why she had phoned. He needed to be in the office to deal with the fall out and manage the response. “Send a car but give me thirty minutes,” he requested hoping the extra time would be enough to pull himself together.

“Yes sir,” she replied, seemingly happy that he was responding appropriately. After the call he continued to sit there on the cold tiles, trying to gather himself. When Gregory appeared in the door, glass of murky fluid in hand.

“It’s important to rehydrate,” Greg said, his quiet displeasure clear. 

“Thank you,” he said though the glass looked like an insurmountable obstacle to his churning stomach. 

“I’m just going to casually mention that you’re in no fit state to be going to work,” the policeman added, “before asking which suit you’d like laid out.”

“To be honest, I really couldn’t care less Gregory.”

“That probably proves my initial point,” Greg said. “You do need to actually drink that in order for it to help.”

“I am aware,” Mycroft replied, also very aware of the cold sweat covering his skin, the unsettled spasms of his stomach and the exhaustion pulling at his bones. “I need to shower.”

Greg left him, still plainly irritated but without any further castigation and Mycroft managed to stand up, flush the toilet and divest himself of his sleepwear while the water heated. He tried to focus, mind over matter, but the few mouthfuls he’d managed to swallow from the glass Gregory had provided, were regurgitated into the shower tray while shampoo suds flowed into his eyes. He knew by the point he’d got himself out of the shower that he was running late. He made it to the bedroom and Gregory silently helped him through his dressing routine.

“You can’t do this from home?” Gregory asked, standing from where he had just tied Mycroft’s shoes for him.

“If only it were so,” he said standing and closing his eyes to help centre himself. Mind over matter, he repeated like a mantra determined to get his body to kowtow to his will.

“Well, just promise that you’ll not stay any longer than you have to,” Gregory said.

“I am hopeful that while urgent, this matter will be resolved quickly.”

“I’m working today but call if you need anything.”

“Come back here when you’re done?” Mycroft asked quietly. “Please?”

“Of course,” Gregory replied, reaching out and gripping his upper arms gently before smoothing out the fabric of his sleeves.

 

\------

Anthea had known her employer was far from well when they’d parted ways at the airport the previous evening. The messages that Greg had sent had only supported this belief but she hadn’t however realised quite how far his condition had deteriorated until he answered the phone. that this had been a mistake struck her like a sledgehammer. She recalculated while she waited on mute, but unfortunately there wasn’t another way around it: with a great deal of work, she might have managed the situation, and the parties involved without involving Mr Holmes. People were expecting him now though, and now that he knew that something was wrong he wouldn’t be put off. 

When he returned to the line, he was comparatively composed and asked appropriate questions as she filled him in on the situation but the quiet careful breathing and the echo from a tiled room gave him away. Still, she dispatched the car as requested because if Mr Holmes said he was coming in then he was coming in even if he was half dead. Events across the atlantic were proceeding apace, and there were any number sources that needed monitoring and managed so she focussed on trying to get things as far forward as she could before her boss’s arrival. 

And then the deadman alarm from one of the outriders escorting Mr Holmes’ car went off, closely followed by the other. With both the motorbikes out of commission, it was almost certainly an attack of some description and at once Anthea was furious that they’d obviously missed something. The chance of this being entirely unrelated to the threat they had thought neutralised was… small. She fired off a text to Sherlock and dispatched new riders as she watched the covert if calm maneuvers that the driver was now taking. 

“Shall I inform Mr Holmes?” he asked, over the phoneline that had been automatically opened.

“Not now,” she replied, accessing the traffic hub and clearing them a route. It took her longer than usual as she bypassed the normal protocols and directed them along a completely arbitrary path. All standard procedures had to be avoided if they were compromised and as of this moment she had to assume that they still were. Shit. 

It wasn’t until she saw them draw up in the carpark downstairs and the immediate danger was past that she breathed out. The fact that Mr Holmes did not seem to have realised that there was anything abnormal about his journey, was just another indication of his current state. Pale faced and clammy as he climbed from the back of the car, his usually impenetrable mask was unconvincing to say the least. He excused himself to use the bathroom before they embarked on the incident management and fire-fighting that were going to be necessary, but while he looked no better on his return he was focussed and ready to work. 

They worked as smoothly as ever, but all the while he was in conference calls and reading updates, she was revisiting the information they had gathered about the attack on her superior’s life. The data that they had compiled over the last week as well as Sherlock’s own reassurances had all pointed to the threat being neutralised when they had apprehended their marks in London and Morocco. Sherlock had responded to her initial message and had accessed the secure hub she had set up in order to see the footage from the morning but had yet to confirm if he had identified the further threat or what further action he thought they should take. For the time being however, Mr Holmes was on a secure floor that was almost entirely locked down as a matter of course. This was as safe as she could get him for the time being. If only he looked slightly less like death warmed over.

Once the first initial crisis was passed, sometime around mid-morning, she tried to get him to eat and when it became clear that wasn’t going to work, to drink something at least. After an extended, if silent, negotiation he accepted the water from the options on offer. Anthea tried very hard not to flinch when she heard him bringing it back up mere moments later. It was several hours later again when Gregory Lestrade became a problem.

_Where is he? Please tell me he’s not still at the office? GL_

_He’s here. A_

There wasn’t a reply to this and perhaps naively she hoped that was the end of the matter. That was until the systems alerted her that DI Lestrade had swiped into the building.

“What are you thinking?” Greg asked, “I mean surely you can see that he’s not fit to be here.”

“International crisis,” she replied. “I’m afraid they don’t always pay attention to the intricacies of day to day life.” She could tell he was angry and she understood his concern. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she really didn’t know where and who else she could trust at the moment then she would have sent Mr Holmes home almost as soon as he’d arrived. But…

“Well unless it’s nuclear war in the next hour, he’s leaving now. He needs to be at home. In bed.” Anthea knew he was right, but her defensive instincts were strong. 

“You have no way of knowing that he isn’t feeling better. For all you know, he could be sleeping now.”

“Other than the fact I know him? And you? And what kind of crazy life you lead?” Anthea said nothing for a moment before blurting out,

“There was an incident. When Mr Holmes was being brought in this morning.”

“A life threatening incident? I thought you said that it was safe for him to come back!?” 

“We thought it was but we were obviously wrong. Sherlock’s back on the trail but in the meantime we need to be careful.”

“Shit.”

“That just about covers it,” she said with a sigh. “You know…” she began, stopping and regathering herself before begining again. “You know I wouldn’t have let him come back if there’d been any indication...”

“Of course you wouldn’t have! Can I…?” he asked, gesturing towards the closed office door. Anthea nodded.

“Of course.” She released the lock with the fingerprint scanner under the desk and raised an eyebrow when Greg looked at her. “All possible precautions.” He bit his lip and nodded as she followed him into the inner sanctum.

“Gregory?” There was a slightly confused look on the face that greeted them. “I thought you had to work today?”

“Well I did. After you left, I went back to sleep for a couple of hours, then I got up and went to work, did paperwork, made an arrest and now, here I am.”

“Surely…” the look of disbelief as he looked first at his watch and then at his laptop screen concerned Anthea. “It can’t be as late as that…” absently he reached for the bottle of water sitting on his desk and took a swig. It was only a matter of seconds before he seemed to regret that action.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked, moving around the desk as the other man started to stand, leaning heavily on the desk.

“I’m sorry, I…” he started to collapse towards the floor, and Anthea started moving forward too but Greg was already there.

“Woah… easy there…” Mycroft groaned quietly, before he started gagging. Gregory shifted him awkwardly so that the other man was on his side, and wouldn’t choke on what little water he’d consumed and just thrown back up. “Shhh I’ve got you…”

“Sorry…” the word was slurred, but at least he was moving with purpose trying to push himself upright.

“Enough, stay there love, at least give yourself a minute,” Greg said firmly. Stepping away, Anthea gave them both a moment and went to fetch a washcloth and a towel from the en suite. When she returned she handed the washcloth to Greg who cradled the other man carefully in his lap.

“He needs to see a doctor. Go to A&E.”

“We can’t,” she said flatly.

“I’ll be fine… I… I just stood up too quickly.” While Mr Holmes sounded more steady than before, that was not saying much, “Just… If you’ll help me…” It seemed that he was determined to stand one way or another so Anthea assisted Greg and slowly between them they got the other man upright. For all of about half a second. This time he wasn’t so quick to wake back up when he hit the floor.

“Did he hit his head?” Anthea asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Surely you have medics around here somewhere?” Greg asked, gently stroking Mycroft’s forehead.

“Not that I can be certain aren’t compromised.”

“John then. I want John to look at him. If we can’t take him to A&E or home or… can we bring John here?” It was a risk. Everything was a risk, but she was increasingly concerned that all might not be as innocent as it seemed and the shear pleading in Greg’s tone only made her own concern worse

“I’ll sort it,” she said.


	5. Chapter 5

Phone calls from unknown numbers were, for many people, simply things to be ignored. When you knew Mycroft Holmes however you could never be entirely sure.

“Hello,” he answered.

“Dr Watson.” It was Anthea, and uncharacteristically she sounded something other than bored. “Can I ask you to come to this address?” He wrote it on the back of his hand. Usually, Mycroft sent a car so if he was being asked to make his own way it was just another sign that there was something wrong. Sherlock had, unsurprisingly, not kept them in the loop but had certainly seemed content that things had been resolved satisfactorily.

“Quietly?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be forty-five minutes.”

“Bring your case.”

“Will do.” He looked at the forms he was supposed to have been completing while Mary had taken Emily out. Ah well, he was pretty sure he could ask Mycroft to sort out a late tax return. 

He took a bus because that’s what he normally would have done and once he was on board sent Sherlock a fairly innocuous message.

_You at home later? J_

He didn’t get a quick reply but that might not have meant anything. Arriving at the door to the office he had been directed to, John found it looked very much like any other government building. Pressing the buzzer for entry he was admitted and was about to speak to the man behind the desk when he spotted Mycroft’s assistant, nose in her phone, standing next to a lift.

“Hello,” he said crossing the floor towards her.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, swiping her card to call the lift. 

“No problem. Greg said you’d hurt your ribs. How are they?” 

“Fine.”

“Uhhu,” he said, trying to judge how she was moving. “Make sure you keep breathing deeply even if it hurts.”

“Yes, Captain.” She led them down a corridor swiping her card and entering an eight digit PIN several times. They stopped at her desk and she released something beneath the lip of her desk. There was a click and the lock on the office door released.

“Hey mate,” Greg greeted him quietly from within the shrouded dark, The curtains had been drawn and while John had been here before it took him a moment to adjust, “thanks for this,” the other man said after a moment.

“No problem,” he replied absently as he made his way slightly hesitantly across the room. Greg was sitting in the corner of a sofa, Mycroft’s head resting on his thighs and his hand twined in his hair. While John had seen the picture that Mrs Holmes had captured at Christmas, he was still taken by the fact that Mycroft Holmes lost a lot of his impact when he was asleep. 

“So, our luck held,” Greg continued with a self-depreciative chuckle, “I don’t know how long he’s been sick but it’s been pretty grim since last night and he can’t stay upright now. Every time he sits up he pretty much passes out.”

“That’s probably low blood pressure,” John said practically, kneeling down next to the sofa.

“I’ll be fine I just need…” Mycroft was slurring and while he’d opened his eyes his gaze wasn’t focussing properly. 

“Has he managed to keep anything down?” 

“He’s had maybe 200ml in the last hour but he’s been sick three times so… not really.” Anthea had drifted away, whether because there was something else she needed to be doing or because she was trying to offer her boss some privacy he wasn’t sure. 

“I’m assuming that there’s a reason you haven’t called in someone on staff or taken him to A&E?”

“Turns out Sherlock’s still on the case. There was a near miss on his way into the office this morning. He shouldn’t even have left the flat but...”

“Ok, well I’m going to give you a quick exam Mycroft,” John said, pulling out stethoscope and BP cuff.   
As he examined his patient, he tried to keep an open mind. Norovirus could be nasty, particularly in the elderly, young and infirm but there were certainly a number of other things that could cause similar symptoms. He was palpating the civil servant’s stomach when he felt the tell-tale contractions of cramping. 

“Ugh,” Mycroft groaned, biting his lip and trying to curl up. With a hand on his shoulder and hip, John rolled him onto his side just in time for him to start gagging. Greg had pulled a bin that looked like it had been stolen from a nearby bathroom in under his partner’s mouth but other than that a string of saliva there really wasn’t anything to catch. John caught Greg’s eye and gave him a tight smile, as John comforted the other man through the waves of pain. 

“Shhh It’s alright,” Greg murmured quietly, “I’ve got you.” John could see that the other man was in considerable discomfort despite the fact that after the first exclamation he had not made another cry, he didn’t think however that pain was the only reason for the tears now streaking his face. As a doctor, John was pretty blasé about about bodily fluids and the way a body could betray its owner but that didn’t mean he couldn’t understand why someone like Mycroft would find the whole experience mortifying. When the fit had passed, John continued his examination but he already had a pretty good idea of his diagnosis.

“I’m pretty sure it’s noro given that there was a known infection vector,” he glanced a Greg who was grimacing. “But I can’t be certain without bloodwork. Whatever the cause though he’s massively dehydrated, and I don’t think he had much in the way of reserves to begin with. In normal circumstances I would recommend admission, at least until we can get some fluids into him and maybe control the worst of the symptoms. That could be managed outside a hospital but I’d need access to supplies and some basic equipment.

“We don’t currently have access to any stores that I can.guarantee the integrity of,” said Anthea flatly.

“Well I can make a start with what I’ve got with me, and I might be able to sort something out,” John had already had an idea about a favour Stamford owed him and one of Mary’s live alias’.

“But we’re still stuck here,” Greg said with a quiet frustration, “Mycroft needs to be at home if he can’t be in hospital. Or at least somewhere where he can get some proper rest as well as be safe.”

“Sherlock should be making contact within the hour,” Anthea said with a frown, “I hope that he’ll be able to offer us better insight as to what’s going on and therefor how best we can take precautions.”

“Well, let’s get you as comfortable as we can,” John said, looking down at the patient of whom they’d been talking. Mycroft’s eyes were half lidded and unfocussed but John hoped if he could get some fluids into him, it would help. Reaching back into his bag, he produced a fresh bottle of water, it was pure good luck he had it, but just in case by some strange circumstance someone had managed to tamper with the supply of water or even the bottled stock…

Over the course of the next hour, he and Greg managed to get about half the bottle into Mycroft but once again it didn’t stay there long. He’d injected the other man with antiemetic but it hadn’t really had the effect he’d hoped, the painkiller however seemed to have at least helped a little.

“Just close your eyes and rest a minute love,” Greg continued to talk quietly, comforting Mycroft with a gentle hand stroking back his hair.

“Sorry…”

“Shh now… John’s looking after you, and Anthea’s looking after all of us.”

“Sh’lock?”

“He’s working, he’ll be having a whale of a time no doubt…” John didn’t disagree though the terse responses he’d got to his messages implied Sherlock was more concerned than simply caught up in the case. Heaven knew he didn’t like being wrong and if he’d said it was safe to bring his brother out of hiding before it really was there would no doubt be a fallout. Anthea had mostly retreated back to the outer office, where obviously there were ongoing situations that required attention. She also had her own part to play in whatever protection and investigation but when Sherlock next made contact she returned and placed the call on speaker phone.

“The threat is more deeply rooted than I’d feared.” John and Greg shared a look at this. 

“So…” John began when it became clear that Greg was struggling to formulate words, “what now? I mean we can’t stay here without trusted supplies.”  
“I wouldn’t recommed staying where you are, even if you had everything you need.”

“All of the safe houses here are… well I have to assume that they’re compromised in that case.” Anthea said.

“What about my place?” Greg asked, clearing his throat, “or a hotel?”

“Without access to a team to check and monitoring…”

“The Firs,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding tinny as it echoed from the small speaker.

“Mr and Mrs Holmes’ protection detail is purposefully kept separate. If we could get there without… it is an independantly secure location,” Anthea said the cogs already turning.

“He’ll need proper medical care,” John said. “At least to begin with.”

“Well that’s easily enough sorted,” Sherlock said, “Mother and Father would be delighted to invite Mary and Emily to stay. I’m sure you could tag along.”

“That’s all good and well,” Anthea said, “but we’ll need another extraction.”

“I could just drive him,” Greg said.

“You need to stay in London,” Sherlock declared, “you may be useful. Besides, while we might be able to convince any casual observer that the Watsons have been invited out of town to visit my parents, I suspect you will be being more closely watched.”

“But…”

“Whatever we’re doing,” John said bluntly, “we need to do it soon Sherlock, your brother really isn’t well.”

“Well… what if I broke away and took him to A&E? I mean, that would be believable wouldn’t it?” Greg asked, “I could drive him to A&E but rather than check him in once we got there, what if we bypassed and went straight downstairs?”

“To Molly?” John asked, suddenly seeing where the other man was coming from.

“Yeah, we could... I don’t know, get her to arrange a fake a collection request for one of the undertakers. Take him out as a stiff.”

“That is remarkably imaginative, Lestrade,” Sherlock said grudgingly after a moments silence.

“It’s as good as anything I’ve come up with,” Anthea agreed. “I think we can trust Alex after this morning through, he should drive you both to the hospital in an official car.”

“I’ll smooth it over with Molly and the funeral home,” Sherlock spoke up. “There’s a family firm that owe me a favour. John can you ask Mary to arrange a rental car? You can collect Mycroft from a spot next to a supermarket that’s en route. I’ll send the address.”  
“Sure,” John agreed, thinking that they could probably add some more distance to the booking if they thought about it carefully. Get someone else to book it and make the collection. He could take a taxi and meet them at the collection, maybe be there ready for Mycroft to arrive. He voiced the idea, “I’m sure he’ll be fine but this process isn’t going to be fun.”

“If I can’t go,” Greg sounded distraught at this, “then I want John back with him as soon as he can be.”

“Acceptable,” Sherlock agreed. 

“Sherlock, ask Molly to get a bag enriched saline into him before she puts him in the body bag?” It was not the oddest statement John Watson had ever made but it did come close. 

\-------

Valarie was not naive enough that she hadn’t suspected that something was wrong in the last week. Neither of her sons were the most reliable when it came staying in touch but even so, if Mycroft said he would be in contact then he would be. So, when she hadn’t been able to get through to even her elder son’s delightful PA, she had called Sherlock. Who also hadn’t answered. Still, when Richard had arrived in from the garden with a face like thunder, she had not expected the message he was bringing. 

“Sherlock just called from… well I’m not sure where he was or whose phone he was using as it certainly wasn’t his own…”

“What did he say?” she asked, drying her hands on a tea-towel.

“He wants you to invite the Watsons to come and stay for a few days.”

“Well that’s no hardship,” she said with a frown.

“They’ll be arriving tonight, they’re also bringing Mycroft but that has to be entirely under the radar.”

“What’s happened to him?” she asked, reaching for the back of a nearby chair.

“He… Sherlock didn’t say much but there’s a threat, and it’s coming from the inside. He’s coming here because our minders are from a different team entirely.”

“Oh good grief… the mortar attack…”

“I don’t know Val, but yes that would make sense.”

“Oh… Is he… he wasn’t…”

“He wasn’t hurt no. He is quite ill though, at least… they think it’s just a virus but he needs some tlc and some peace. Alright love?”

“Yes, yes of course,” Valerie took a deep breath. “You call Mary and I’ll start making the beds… do you suppose… I think I’ve some soup in the freezer…”

It was four hours later before their last minute guests arrived and when the car pulled up, it seemed longer still before any of the doors opened. Mary was the first to appear into the dusky evening light, releasing Emily from her carseat before turning to face them.

“Hello! Come in, come in,” Val said, gesturing for Mary to go through the open front door. “We’ve set up the same room for you as last time so just you take Emily straight up. We’ll sort out the luggage and then we can get you anything else you need. 

“Thank you, it’s lovely to see you,” Mary said, speaking quietly in obvious deference to the mostly sleeping child she was carrying, “sorry about the circumstances.”

“Nonsense,” she said, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from the child’s forehead, “anytime. If there’s ever anything....” she choked, not entirely sure what it was she trying to say. “Anytime.” 

By the time Mary had gone inside, Richard was standing at the other open door helping Mycroft out. Val was immediately taken back to when her eldest had been a new student up at Oxford. At 17 he’d been so taken with the opportunities that university provided that when he’d come down with Glandular Fever, he’d been hospitalised twice before they’d even found out and anyone had managed to convince him that he couldn’t simply ignore the situation. Richard had gone alone to pick Mycroft up while she had taken Sherlock back to school after the half term but when they’d arrived back at the cottage she’d been distraught at how unwell her boy had looked. On good days, Valerie liked to think Mycroft had learnt from the experience but on others she knew that while he was better at some of the day to day necessities of life than Sherlock, he could nock his younger brther into a cocked hat when it came to stubborness.

Now, it took both Richard and John to get him out of the car and when he was upright, he still looked like a good breeze would blow him over. His skin was grey and she strongly suspected that it wouldn’t take a mother’s instinct to spot the nausea written across his features. He seemed much younger, wearing oversized hospital scrubs and a jumper that was certainly not his own and the colour having disappeared from his complection. All of this only served to highlight the freckles she’d always loved and he seemed to hate. She could see the three of them talking quietly and Richard’s glance was enough to stifle her initial impulse to either approach or start to talk nonsense. The boys had this under control.

She tried not to think too hard about he snippets of conversation she could hear and the fact that Mycroft was making an obvious beeline for the downstairs loo. Instead, she put the kettle back on the aga, measured out Mycroft’s favourite tea leaves, just incase she could tempt him, and opened the biscuit box for the others. 

“Have you and Mary had a chance to eat?” she asked John who was hovering in the living room.

“I... “ She could see him hesitate. “... not really.”

“Well there’s some macaroni cheese that I’ll pop in the warming oven then,” she said without broking debate.   
“Thanks,” he said with a weary but grateful smile, and Val had to suppress her natural instinct to ask a hundred and one questions again.

“I… is there anything that I can get for Mycroft?” she offered. “There’s a jug of water by the bed....”

“I think that’s as much as we’ll risk tonight. He’s feeling pretty rotten but I really think if he can get a good night’s sleep and we can keep him hydrated he’ll feel better in the morning.” 

“Good, that’s… I… I really appreciate…” the sound of the flush rather cut her off.

“Your sons’ are remarkable Mrs Holmes, but not everyone appreciates that.”

“Let’s not ignore the fact that they’re both difficult buggers when they want to be… but please… I appreciate what you do for both of them.” The door opened and Mycroft appeared looking like the only thing holding him up was the doorframe.

“Oh sweetheart,” she said wanting desperately to cross the room and hug him but knowing that even when he was well embraces were often things Mycroft tolerated rather than took comfort in. 

“I uh… I wouldn’t come too close,” he said with a raised hand almost as though she’d read his mind. “But… I uh I’d rather appreciate a hot water bottle if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Oh of course not,” she said with a slightly watery smile, as though she’d have said no! “You head up and I’ll bring it up when it’s ready.”

“Let’s get you settled shall we. It’s been a long day,” John suggested gently.

The water bottles were kept in the utility room and Val was remarkably happy when she managed to rake out the fleecy cover with the embroidered M on to cover it with. She held the warm bottle close as she climbed the stairs, and knocked on Mycroft’s bedroom door.

“Just a minute,” John said but after a few seconds the door opened.

“I’m just going to go grab my case out of the card, would you…”

“Of course dear,” she said, equally quietly. “Now then, here you go,” she said as she approached the bed. Mycroft was curled up on his side, wearing the pair of pyjamas she’d laid out on the pillows but also clutching the basin she’d left as a just in case. “Do you still want the hot water bottle?” she asked lightly, knowing that there was every chance that he might not. 

“Please,” he said, reaching a hand out to take it and tucking it up against his middle. She let herself straighten the blankets and perched on the edge of the mattress. The misery was simply pouring off him and there was no wonder if he felt half as awful as he looked. 

“Shh,” she said gently when he whimpered in discomfort and she was stroking his back through the covers before she’d even thought about it.


	6. Chapter 6

While unexpected, and certainly not without complications, Mary was rather enjoying the break from their normal routine. The first few days after they arrived at the Holmes family cottage were quiet. Mycroft slept most of the time, John keeping a close watch on the intravenous drip he’d set up while catching up with his journals. Emily was making the most of Richard and Valerie’s garden and the fact that she was being spoiled rotten. On day three though, Mary could see the concern lifting from her husband’s shoulders and the following morning a wan and unsteady Mycroft joined them in the living room. 

“Tea, dear?” Valerie asked lightly as he sat on the sofa.

“Please, but no toast,” he added, clearly seeing the scheme his mother was plotting. The elder woman glanced at John but he tilted his head in an indication that he wasn’t going to countermand this request. Emily had been quite contented moving blocks back and forth on the carpet but now seemed more interested in the new arrival.

“Hello there,” Mycroft said as she pulled herself up onto her feet using his cords as leverage. 

“Come on, Ems,” Mary said standing and swooping her up. “Let’s give Uncle Mycroft a minute to gather himself before we clamber all over him.” The man in question offered her a grateful smile but Emily was unimpressed, squealing in protest. When Mary sat at the other end of the sofa she wriggled away almost instantly and crawled along the cushions toward her original target. 

“Well then, you are determined,” Mycroft said, waving Mary off as she tried to pull her daughter back. “And what is it that you would like?” Emily burbled away, apparently content now that she had the attention of who she had wanted. Mycroft lifted her so that she was sat across his knees. “You shall have to be gentle with me,” he said seriously. “Yes, those are your fingers but you should be careful where you put them young lady or someone shall capture them.”

Having seen the changes that Emily brought about in Sherlock, it should hardly have been surprising that Mycroft was also remarkably good with her in his own way. She had seen that at Christmas but there was something lovely about the quiet seriousness of the way he dealt with her. Not trying to explain particle physics, or watching her complete as specific series of activities as she often found Sherlock doing. Instead, Mycroft simply conversed, and played peek-a-boo and handed her interesting things out of his pockets, apparently unconcerned when they were handed back covered in slavers. After a little while, Emily simply leant forward, her check against his chest and her thumb in her mouth and started blinking sleepily.

“That’s you trapped mate,” John said with a smile. 

“I can think of worse fates. If someone might hand me that book and refresh my tea I think I can be content here for some time.” As it happened, neither of these things seemed particularly necessary as less than quarter of an hour later Mycroft’s head had tilted to the side and he too was asleep.

Appart from the time that he spent with Emily, Mycroft seemed not to avoid the rest of them, but at least to be unobtrusive, withdrawn. He was disinclined to join them at meal times, the way the colour drained from his face at the idea confirmation enough that the nausea was lingering. Instead he took himself out into the garden while they ate, returning windswept and despite her initial suspicions smelling remarkably smoke free. The following morning John put down a plate of dry toast in front of him.

“Eat. Or if there’s something else that the idea of sits better, I’ll get that but you need something in you.” Her husband knew his trade, he might have confronted Sherlock in a room full of people but Mycroft he’d caught alone, Mary only hearing what he said by chance. 

“I…” Mycroft began. “Very well, John.” She didn’t wait to see how successful the venture was, but instead returned to the garden where Val and Richard were currently entertaining their youngest guest.

If she had thought that this confrontation was going to signal a revolutionary change, it did not. Mycroft still avoided mealtimes but when he was handed something by John he would make a valiant effort to consume it or at least appear to. A raised eyebrow from her, had at least put paid to the palming of things. While there had been no news from Anthea, Sherlock or Greg, and there was very little discussion of the situation, it hung over them like a pall. Mycroft stayed inside, mostly away from the windows and refused to let anyone buy any of his usual favourites when they went to the supermarket.

Unable to access any of his own work, Mary would have expected him to be climbing the walls. Instead he’d spent considerable time by the fire, with his nose in one of his mother’s academic tomes. 

“He may never have had any great interest in Val’s field,” Richard said one day as they did the lunch dishes. “But he’s no slouch when it comes to mathematics. He could always follow her workings even if he wasn’t able to approach the problems in the same way.” Mary said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “That book shouldn’t have taken him more than a few hours to finish.” It was said lightly enough but the concern was clear and she understood it. There was something troubling Mycroft, consuming his thoughts and taking him away from them even when he was in the same room.

“Are you sure Mycroft dear?” Val asked even the following morning as they were standing by the door, about to set of for a day at the nearby safari park. “One of us could stay?”

“Go. Enjoy! Buy Sherlock something ridiculous from the gift shop. Perhaps a jumper with a penguin on it.”

“I don’t think they have penguins, dear. It’s a safari park,” Val said seriously.

“I seriously doubt that they have dinosaurs either but I would be desperately surprised if they didn’t carry merchandise involving them.”

“Really Mycroft,” she said with an exasperated sigh.

“I promise I’ll be quite alright. I shall delight in the solitude and I promise not to set foot over the threshold.”

“Well if you’re sure?”

“Quite,” he said more firmly. Even while he was still decidedly grey and frail looking, this was a Mycroft that was not to be ignored.

 

\--------

John woke up with the side of his face pressed up against the car window and a crick in his neck.

“Oh, sleeping beauty’s decided to wake up just in time for us getting home,” Mary said, from next to him.

“Wha…” John asked rubbing his eyes.

“It must have been chasing all those goats around, wore you out,” Val said with a barely concealed smirk. There had been an incident with a pen of kids, which he might not have closed the gate on quickly enough.

“It could have happened to anyone,” Richard said from behind the wheel, stepping up in his defence. The better he got to know this couple the more he liked them. John often felt that he was barely keeping up with Emily, so what on earth it must have been like to try and love and nourish your children when they were quite as unusual as Mycroft and Sherlock. The car turned smoothly into the driveway and Richard reached up behind the visor to grab the remote. When he pressed the button though nothing happened. 

“Did you change the battery this morning?” Valerie asked, with an arched eyebrow.

“No…” her husband replied sheepishly.

“I’ll get it,” John offered, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door.

“Thank you John dear,” Val said, twisting around in the front seat. “We’ll go round to the garage and put in a new battery. Won’t we?”

“Yes, dear,” Richard replied with an air of long suffering but with his eyes twinkling. 

Closing the car door behind him, John jogged across to the gate and entered the security code. Richard waved him through the first and he took a shortcut across the grass as they started around the driveway and towards the garage. As John approached the house he paused, the sound of the piano audible through the leaded single glazed windows. It wasn’t the first time that he’d heard Mycroft play the piano, he’d played at Christmas and was quite clearly gifted but somehow, this was different. Less formal and more honest, as he perched casually on the stool. John thought for a moment that perhaps he was composing, his right hand drifting through what felt like half formed tunes before seeming to settle. His left hand joined in then, the chords anchoring the melody into something familiar. It was one of the tracks on an album that Richard had played a few evenings back, long after Mycroft had already retired. 

John didn’t count himself as a romantic or a sentimentalist, though perhaps that was naive. He also didn’t count himself a fan of contemporary folk, but it was a song that had made an impression at the time and now, played by this man it felt more poignant than ever. This might not be a classical opus but it was being played with such honest feeling that it was at least as profound as anything he’d heard Sherlock perform.

He wondered sometimes what it was like inside the brain of someone like Sherlock or Mycroft. Extraordinary minds, in the true sense of the word. When he’d mentioned it to Mary, she’d mostly laughed and made a joke about hoping Sherlock’s mental filing was more ordarly than his physical attempts. Greg though, Greg had seemed to understand that there was more to it than that. He’d met John’s eye and in that moment the doctor had realised how well Greg had known Mycroft and how much their separation had cost the policeman. Just another casualty of Sherlock’s actions he supposed, and he himself knew how wide and long that shadow still fell. 

Things did seem to be settling down again now though. Or at least he hoped they would once they managed to catch whoever it was that was currently trying to take Mycroft out. Only John had a horrible feeling that the quiet despondency that seemed to have overtaken the older man might have more to do with his personal life, than the fact that he was being cooped up away from his work. 

The others arrived, piling out of the car and making more than enough noise to alert Mycroft to their arrival. Standing, he closed the lid of the piano, and John drifted out of sight as Mycroft moved towards the door.

“The kettle is on,” he said as they all spilled into the living room, “I trust you had a pleasant day?” As the older couple chattered excitedly, John took Emily from Mary’s arms. 

“I’ll make tea,” she offered, retreating to the kitchen as John started wrestling their daughter out of her outdoor clothes.

“Someone’s been busy,” Mary said lightly when she returned with a tray. 

“I was somewhat limited by the supplies I had access to but, I hope that it’ll prove edible.” 

“Well the stew smells amazing, and I’ve already tried the cake and it puts Mrs H to shame. Don’t tell her I said that though!”

“You’re too kind,” Mycroft said quietly, “but I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Well, hopefully this means that you’ll be feeling up to joining us for dinner,” John said quietly as he handed over Emily who was reaching for Mycroft with the one hand that wasn’t preoccupied with clutching her new meerkat soft toy.

“I’m afraid I’ve rather spoilt my appetite by picking all afternoon,” he said, failing entirely to make eye contact while Emily wrapped an arm round his neck and hit him in the face with the meerkat. “In fact, I thought I might retire shortly,” he added.

John felt the crease form between his eyes. Despite his best efforts at tempting and outright demanding, nothing more substantial than a bowl of soup and the occasional slice of toast had gone over the other man’s gullet even after he’d stopped throwing up.

“You need to eat Mycroft.” John said plainly. He watched as Val took the tray from Mary setting it down and then encouraging Richard to pour the tea.

“And as I said, I’ve had my fill already John. I appreciate all your assistance and the inconvenience that we’ve put you to, but really I am quite…” Mycroft stopped, suddenly holding Emily out towards John. He took her from him solely on instinct, managing to guide the other man towards the nearest chair with his free arm. 

“Head between your knees,” he said calmly, as the other man’s suddenly wobbly knees ceased to cooperate and he sat abruptly.

“Your system’s running on nothing,” John said. “You might get away with that normally Mycroft but you’ve got no reserves. I mean absolutely nothing, at the moment.

“Here, there’s a little sugar in it,” Richard said, handing over a mug and happily taking the child John thrust at him.

“Slow sips,” John instructed several minutes later when he sat back up.

“I just want to sleep,” Mycroft protested. “I’m just tired.”

“No. You’re really not just tired. Drink your tea for now though.” 

“John…”

“No, Mycroft. Drink the tea and walk up the stairs unaided and you can sleep till your heart’s content and we’ll start fresh tomorrow.” 

“I…”

“Just say yes, Mycroft,” Mary said, coming to stand beside the chair. “It’s usually the easiest option.”


	7. Chapter 7

In many things, Sherlock had infinite patience. He would happily wait for a reagent to change colour for hours during an experiment. He’d perched on doorsteps or in alleyways for days before a target had wandered across his path. In other matters however, he chafed at the inactivity, at there being nothing he could do but allow circumstances to unfold at their own pace. The first time he had thought he had the solution, he had pushed all the pieces together to suit his own timeline. What little communication he had had with his brother and his minders, nevermind Anthea’s barely concealed concern, had driven him to solve the problem with all due haste. He had missed something, he had been tricked into believing that he had reached the heart of the conspiracy and by doing this he had put Mycroft in danger. 

The feeling that this last situation invoked was not something he had expected nor particularly welcomed. During his hiatus he’d come to understand his brother a little better or at least, he had thought at the time he had. Then, at Christmas everything he thought he’d understood had been thrown to the wind once again. While Sherlock found predicting human behaviour relatively straightforward, he didn’t find emotions and the reasons behind them nearly so simple. He had struggled to watch Lestrade and Mycroft dance around each other, although they did seem at least to be trying to come to an understanding. The nature of the texts he had been receiving from the Detective, as well as Mycroft’s change in tie choice of late, certainly indicated that their relationship was evolving in a positive manor.

So Sherlock was once again waiting. Waiting for Anthea to confirm what he was now almost certain was the truth. Waiting so that they could be certain that this time they had rooted out the very heart of the danger. Waiting…

John had sent him a couple of inane text messages but he’d managed to read between the lines. Mycroft was well enough physically and if there were other concerns, even Sherlock struggled to understand what went on in his brother’s over complicated warren of a mind. He suspected however, that a resolution to this current threat, and more importantly the opportunity to reconnect with Lestrade would help more than anything else.

 

In the end, the denouement to the situation was entirely anti-climatic. Arrests were made and for those whose situation and the country’s best interests didn’t make that an acceptable outcome, something else transpired. 

 

“All the gin in the world,” Anthea said, hanging up her phone. “Or on second thoughts Krug. I could bathe in the stuff.”

“Charge it to me,” Sherlock said. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You saved my brother’s life during the initial attack,” he said flatly. “And then you did so again, when it was my fault it was in danger. Besides,” he continued in a lighter tone, “Mycroft pays for most of my bills in the end anyway.” Anthea’s eyes twinkled in understanding before her phone began to vibrate against her desk.

“It’s Greg,” she said holding it towards him. “Do you want to give him the good news?”

“Why would I want to answer your phone?”

“Never mind,” she said, thumbing the screen to accept the call. “Greg, I told you that I would call you when I had news.” There was a pause while Lestrade presumably tried to bluff his way through the fact that he’d been hounding the poor woman.

“Yes, the fact that you’re using a payphone is to be commended however, from this point no longer strictly necessary.”

There was another pause.

“Yes, we are quite sure that the threat has been neutralised though it will be at least a few days before Mr Holmes is returned to London.”

Sherlock held his hand out for the phone. 

“Lestrade,” he said stopping the nonsensical babbling.

“Sherlock. Is it really? Is he really safe?”

“As safe as he ever is given how monumentally irritating it is his want to be.”

“Sherlock…”

“This current danger is over.”

“Thank fuck for that.” The relief in his voice was undeniable and Sherlock could see him collapsing against the desk in his office.

“I need to finish up here,” Sherlock said. “Then you can drive me to my parents’ cottage.”

“I’m leaving now , Sherlock...”

“Go home Lestrade. Shower for the first time in who knows how long. I’ll let know you know when I’m ready to leave.”

“Sherlock…”

“Mycroft is safe. He is not going anywhere. He may even benefit from having a chance to process the news of what has transpired. I can assure you that he will certainly appreciate not having you smell of cigarettes, greasy food and dried perspiration.”

“I don’t… No. You’re right, I smell like an ashtray.”

“I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave.”

Sherlock watched the first of the interviews but it would seem that they had squeezed all the possible information out of these particular sources. The root of the problem was now salted and burned and there was nothing new to learn here. He sent a text to Lestrade and took a moment to wonder, why it was that he was going to the cottage at all. To see that Mycroft was safe with his own eyes, was the obvious answer. He didn’t really understand the reasons behind the desire but it was clear that whatever sentimental tendencies that held sway over John and Lestrade had contaminated him at some point.

Calculating the distances between his current location and Lestrade’s flat it was clear that the other man had not only left immediately he’d received Sherlock’s message but also taken an unusually fluid approach to the rules of the road.

“While not typically particularly concerned with the speed limit Lestrade,” Sherlock said as he opened the passenger door. “I’m aware that you haven’t slept properly in days and I’d rather we both made it to the cottage in one piece.”

“Would you rather drive?” Lestrade asked dryly.

“An excellent idea,” Sherlock said, walking around the back of the car and approaching the driver side. He opened the door and waited for Lestrade to unfasten his seatbelt.

“Sherlock…” he began, clearly reticent to give up the seat.

“I am in possession of a legal driving licence.”

“I know.”

“Well then. You are plainly against further delay so...” he gestured for him to vacate the seat. There was a moment of silence before the other man acquiesced, standing and looking at him for a moment before walking round the car.

There was little said between them, Lestrade staring out the window and away from him, chewing viscously at the pad of his thumb. As they left London proper, the other man reached forward and turned on the radio. Sherlock rather wished that John was there. John would know what to do, what to say. He didn’t think that Lestrade was angry with him, though he would have every right to be. For this most recent mistake but also what it was that he had caused Mycroft to do. 

He still didn’t understand what had transpired between them, the relationship that they’d formed. More than that, he couldn’t comprehend why Lestrade had reacted the way he had when Sherlock had returned; welcoming him warmly while simultaneously ending an intimate relationship of many years. He didn’t understand why, given how important the Detective had clearly become to his brother, Mycroft simply hadn’t lied again to get him to stay.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock heard himself saying, as he checked his mirrors again and carefully swung out to overtake a tractor.

“What on earth for, mate?”

“If I had suitably resolved this matter before sounding the all clear for Mycroft to come home…”

“Yeah, well if I hadn’t kissed him before he’d left for the conference then he wouldn’t have spent most of the last week praying to the porcelain god.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, pulling back in having successfully completed the manoeuvre.

“Throwing up,” Lestrade said with a smile in his tone. “Head over the toilet.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, filing the common vernacular away. With an excuse for his gaze to be firmly fixed elsewhere, this conversation was less excruciating than it might have been so he plowed on. “I am also sorry for putting Mycroft in the position I did when I asked him to collude in my apparent death.”

“What?” it was Lestrade’s turn to question. Sherlock could feel the other man’s eyes on him.

“I relied on his brotherly affection for me. I took advantage of it to ensure he would provide me with all the assistance I could need.”

“You and I both know it wasn’t as simple as that. For what it’s worth, thank you. And I’m sorry that I hurt your brother. It... it was never my intention and I certainly never stopped caring for him.”

“Pft. That much was patently clear. As is the fact that Mycroft has been utterly besotted with you throughout. Whatever he’s tried to tell himself.” They fell back into silence after this but was they wound their way along undulating country lanes Sherlock could see the other man blinking too rapidly out of the corner of his eye.  
_____

Mycroft had taken himself outside when the news had come. The danger was past and Sherlock had once again saved the day. He should have been relieved, he was really, but with that relief came a resolution and the awareness that he really couldn’t put the inevitable off any more. How long he sat there, on that same bench in his parents’ garden that had hosted all those conversations at Christmas, he couldn’t be certain. When he started back into himself though it was dark and he was chilled to the core. As his thoughts struggled to catch up with the world around him, he couldn’t be certain what it was that had woken him from his reverie, he thought perhaps a door opening at the house behind him.

“There you are.” Gregory’s voice from behind him was a surprise, though he couldn’t imagine why. “I rush all the way down here and then I find out you’ve been communing with nature all afternoon.” His tone may have been light but Mycroft could read the underlying anxiety. “I would have been here earlier but Sherlock was determined to come with me so I had to wait…”

“You shouldn’t have…” Mycroft’s voice sounded rough to his own ears. 

“Didn’t they tell you? It’s over - Sherlock got them.”

“It’s never over. There is always something Gregory. It never ends...” he barely whispered the last.

“Hey, what is this?” Gregory sat down next to Mycroft on the bench and reached over to take one of the hands that were resting calmly on his knees. “Shite, you’re frozen,” he said, pulling off his coat and wrapping it awkwardly around Mycroft’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” he said automatically.

“Want to tell me what’s on your mind?” The question was quiet and calmly stated.

“I… recent events have re-emphasized the fact that my life does not lend itself towards my being in a relationship.”

“Stop right there,” Gregory said, forcefully, “I’m not listening to this rubbish.”

“Gregory,” he began, turning for the first time to look at the other man. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of him. 

“No. I… if you still want to do this once you’ve slept properly and a medical professional has confirmed that you are no longer emaciated and that you’re as stable as the next bloke, then we’ll talk about it. But for now, you listen: I love you. There are going to be times when that gets me into trouble, and there are going to be things you don’t tell me and I’ll hate that. But I don’t think that this is the right decision and I don’t think it’s what you want.”

“I’m perfectly well,” Mycroft protested.

“You don’t look it.” They fell back into silence. “Look, Myc, I… I’m knackered. I have it on good authority you haven’t been sleeping either and from the look of it, you’re running on empty just like me. We really need not to do this now.”

“You have been talking to Dr Watson.”

“Mary might have mentioned the state you’ve worked yourself into.”

“I really am fine Gregory, and certainly in sound enough mind to see…”

“No.” Gregory stood up, almost dragging Mycroft up with him. “We’re going inside and I don’t care if Anthea needs to send it in on a helicopter but John is going to give you something to help you get some rest. Then we’re going to lay down and I’m going to be close enough to make sure you’re breathing through the night.”

“I assure you that that isn’t necessary.”

“Fuck necessary Mycroft. I… I’ve spent most of the last ten days half convinced you were dead or dieing. I just… I need to…” He was crying. Gregory was crying and Mycroft didn’t know what to do. 

“Gregory,” he said, “I assure you that I’m quite alright. I… it isn’t often that threats to my safety are so concrete.”

“Not doing this now,”, he said wetly. “Can I have a hug?” Mycroft opened his arms and embraced him willingly before his mind had caught up and he noted absently that his absolute conviction and determination of only a few minutes ago, had crumbled without a trace. 

They stood there on his parents’ lawn and held each other until Mycroft suddenly felt something in him release. He wasn’t even sure what it was but a tension, a constant taught thrumming tension released and suddenly his legs didn’t seemed inclined to support him any longer.

“I’ve got you,” Gregory said, supporting them both. “I love you so much Mycroft. So much, that I don’t know how I managed to ignore it. I… “

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.” Mycroft knew he was babbling, that he wasn’t even saying any of the thousands of things that were running through his head. 

“Shhh it’s alright. We just need... the pair of us need to get some sleep, yeah? And then we’re going to have that conversation we keep talking about. Maybe even with a professional to you know… tell us when we’re losing the plot.” 

“This professional thinks you’re both well past that,” John said lightly. 

“And this one concurs.” He couldn’t see Sherlock but his silhouette in the doorway was as distinctive as his voice. “Now, can we please hurry this along?”

“Shut up Sherlock,” Gregory mumbled from somewhere around Mycroft’s neck. 

“I concur.” Mycroft mumbled.

“Right then,” John said, coming closer. “Inside, both of you. Val’s got soup on that you’re both going to try and eat.” Mycroft’s stomach clenched but he could hear Greg’s rumbling in response to the idea so he allowed himself to be guided back into the house. The warmth as he crossed the threshold seemed somehow to remind him of just how cold he’d grown and he shuddered violently. 

“The fire’s lit,” his father said as they made it into the living room. “You’re half-frozen, son. Here, the pair of you take the two-seater by the fire.” 

Mycroft allowed himself to be buffeted by the group, followed the suggestions and the indications up to and including allowing someone, Gregory he thought, to help him out of his outdoor wear. There was soup and he thought he might have eaten some of it, there was a complaint from Sherlock that it wasn’t his favourite, that someone was sitting in his seat, that something else was wrong and it was all remarkably normal. And then, there was a decision that it was time for bed and while some small part of him realised that it was early still, he didn’t protest. 

The amorphous grey weariness that had been pervading his soul for longer than he could easily identify seemed to have settled closer to him but it had lost its chill. There was a comfortable warmth now, a solid presence at his side as they walked up the stairs.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” Gregory asked quietly, and Mycroft was suddenly aware that he was unfastening the other man’s buttons as his own were opened by Gregory.

“Hmmm.”

“That’s not an answer Mycroft,” he pushed.

“I… yes. I think I’ll sleep, if you’re here.”

“Not going anywhere else.”

“Good…” Mycroft said releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “I’m… that’s good.”

“Shit,” Greg said, pushing his shirt over his shoulders, “you’re skin and bone.”

“I’m soft,” he replied absently.

“I’ve never know you less than slim but there’s barely anything of you now.”

“Just a few pounds…”

“Not according to John.” Mycroft felt his brow furrow, but Gregory seemed intent on moving the conversation on. “Pajamas,” he said handing over the set Mycroft had worn the previous night from beneath the pillow. He knew Gregory would sleep in his boxers and undershirt. The routine was so natural; they brushed their teeth, completed those last minute routines and then slid beneath the covers. There was a moment in which Mycroft felt the potential for awkwardness loom but he pushed it aside and instead allowed himself to revel simply in being held.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Just Not Fair is something that I really am very proud of and I'm hoping that this will stand up to it's worth.  
> I'd love to hear your thoughts here or on twitter @LHA_again  
> Lx


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